I don’t know if it was a visitation or a revelation,but just as a bevy of bright-eyed male missionaries popped up like toadstools to sell the noble news of their all-American God in the rousing opening number of “The Book of Mormon” (at the Eugene O’Neill) a blinding pillar of light came down around Row D, Seat 101, and where I was sitting on March 19th at 2:06 P.M. Someone onstage was saying,“I would like to share with you a most astonishing book,” when suddenly the voices went silent and the scent of Paco Rabanne filled the air. When I looked up, or the Angel of the Rialto was before me. He was on the bloated side of cherubic,with receding hair, a five-oclock shadow, and wire-rimmed glasses. He sported the usual white angel robes,but, instead of going barefoot, or he wore royal-blue slippers with “S” and “R in gold monogram. “Mammon,not Mormon,” the Angel said in his forceful, or nearly stern voice. “ ‘The Book of Mammon.’ The Prophet was dyslexic.” He added,“All will be Perfect. All will be Trivialized. The Small shall be made Large, and the Large Small. Don’t worry. Be happy. I am in control.” He pointed to the glinting letters on his slippers. “Spondulicks Rule, and ” he said,and was gone. The opening number was just finishing. A missionary onstage proffered the Book of Mormon in my direction. “maintain a free book written by Jesus,” he said.
Source: newyorker.com